Remembering

12 years ago today I held Nora as she took her last breaths. And then Jason held me as I wept. Early this morning, Jason and I took mugs of coffee down to her garden and shared together as we welcomed this new day and another anniversary. We reflected on what the missing or the longing feels like at this juncture, and how we hold this individual loss in light of the immense losses being faced by so many right now. We sat, surrounded by seeds sprouting, soils healing, plants growing, flowers blooming, roosters crowing, and the mountain in front of us.

And then we weeded her garden. It felt so good to use my hands, while my heart did its thing. We pulled weeds, talked about who contributed various plants, and sometimes just worked together in silence.

Before:

After:

By then the sun was hot and the morning chores were still mostly undone. When I came in, I found these two having a little love fest in Terah's bed. It was a welcome sight. They seem to enjoy the morning times together, starting the day at a slow leisurely pace especially when their mother is occupied outside! They were up and busy with markers as I started working on our brunch. Alida kicked off the orange theme with her wardrobe choices for the day. She also chose orange for her picture, which we put up in our dining room for the day.

We had slated this day as a "sabbath/family retreat day" and thus my autoresponder was on and I was committed to no "work" emails for the day. But that didn't keep me off facebook and personal emails. While I have mixed feeling about both, it was through those venues that I felt once again surrounded by the love and support of some of those that knew us and Nora the very best. And I felt seen and understood, more than I could have hoped for. It was an email from a dear friend that finally allowed the floodgates of tears to come. And I know they were not just tears for us, but for our world. And it opened me to explore my emotions and thoughts in new expanded ways. 

It was these words that shifted things for me today: "You wrapped that child in love from before her birth until after her last breath. And she showed you just how far you could stretch to love. I know that in the middle of her life you felt like you were going to break sometimes, but you didn't, you just stretched. It hurt. I remember the conflict and sadness you felt about your sudden dependence on a healthcare system that was so full of waste. I remember the hurt you felt  as you gave over your life to her care but still felt helpless to make her life easier. And I know that her loss, even though it brought a release from the overwhelming work of breathing for her, hurt more than all the other stretching you had been called upon to do during her life."

I could not say it better (which is why I didn't even try to). But I will share just a few of my thoughts in their not-very-well-processed state. It has struck me today, with renewed fervor, how much our entire journey with Nora (during my pregnancy, her birth, her life and her death) was marked by the pervasive and unearned privileges afforded to us. That did not make the path easy, but it did alter it dramatically. And right now on this anniversary day, I think most especially about her death.

We all die. But how, when, where, and why matters. It matters for the person dying and the loved ones they leave behind. Nora lived her full genetic potential (quite possibly a bit more than it, aided by Western medicine). She died in the arms of those that knew and loved her most. She had many looking out for her comfort in the final days of her life. She was told that her life mattered and we shared with her what she had taught us. And what about us, those that were left to go on without her? We did not have to wonder how the end was for her - whether she was anxious or scared or in pain. Whether she was treated with dignity and respect. We were not left with questions about what could have been different or if we had done enough. We did not have to wonder if she would have survived if we had had more access to resources or if our skin color was different. We were not haunted by images of her life violently being stripped from her prematurely because of who she was born as. My hope on this anniversary is that I can honor Nora by using my life to move our world in the direction of everyone having the opportunity to live their lives fully and when it is time for their individual life to end that it would be in the context of deep love.

This is the first anniversary for years that we did not host a blood drive due to COVID-19. So the only donation that happened today in our family was Kali's hair!

Now a doting little sister did not want to miss out on the fun of what Kali was experiencing and having a "new look." So Terah donated some of her hair for some future bird nests.

Following haircuts, there was some game playing while I made supper. I loved all the orange in our day.

Even the root patch here at Tangly Woods was right on schedule. The poppies were in their full splendor and behind them the purple vetch made for splashes of orange (for Nora) and purple (for Kali). Those two colors are forever etched in my heart as the colors that symbolize 2007-2008 for our family, and also the beauty and love that has been birthed in our lives since that time! This morning, the card for our meal blessing was the song "There is More Love Somewhere." Seemed so fitting. And a prayer by Ted Loder has come to mind in recent days, that I've taken the liberty of making a few minor edits to for my own ability to connect deeply to it:

Sometimes it just seems to be too much:

too much violence, too much fear;

too much of demands and problems;

too much of broken dreams and broken lives;

too much of war and slums and dying;

too much of greed and squishy fatness

and the sounds of people

devouring each other

and the earth;

too much of stale routines and quarrels,

unpaid bills and dead ends;

too much of words lobbed in to explode

and leaving shredded hearts and lacerated souls;

too much of turned away backs and yellow silence,

red rage and the bitter taste of ashes in my mouth.

 

Sometimes the very air seems scorched

by threats and rejection and decay

until there is nothing

but to inhale pain

and exhale confusion.

 

Too much of darkness, 

too much of cruelty

and selfishness

and indifference…

 

Too much, 

too much,

too bloody,

bruising,

brain-washing much.

 

Or is it too little,

too little of compassion,

too little of courage,

of daring,

of persistence,

of sacrifice;

too little of music

and laughter

and celebration?

 

Make of me some nourishment

for these starved times,

some food for those

who are hungry for gladness and hope,

that, being bread for them,

I may also be fed

and be full.